


in our own strength confide

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has Issues (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), But He's Definitely In Denial, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Rough Kissing, Wall Slam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: Aziraphale was not brave.But push him far enough, and he'll make the first move.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 100





	in our own strength confide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Perhapsormaybe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perhapsormaybe/gifts).



> CW: injuries as metaphors, verbal abuse, intimate partner violence (the last two are kind of consensual? But probably still not okay)
> 
> For @Perhapsormaybe’s prompt on the DIWS server: “ a fluffy one shot where Aziraphale makes the first move (Teen rating max, please)” Sorry that I couldn’t get this to you in time to help with your bad day, but I hope you still enjoy it!
> 
> Title from that grand old Lutheran hymn, “A mighty fortress is our God.” To be honest, that hymn kinda took over this fic; that’s what my brain does when I forget to watch it.
> 
> Thank you to demonicxiconic for the beta!

Aziraphale was not brave.

Oh, he supposed he _behaved_ bravely enough. It was what he had been created for, after all: a warrior; a principality; a celestial entity designed to protect and guard.

And yes, he had never hesitated to act in accordance with his purpose. To give away his Heaven-issued weapon to a defenseless family. To snap out shining wings to shield an injured child. To dash into London traffic to rescue an adventurous duckling. 

But that wasn’t truly courage. That was merely _instinct_. If he had to make a considered choice, to think an issue over, his habit was to hem and haw, to fret and to fuss, until the world would literally come to an end and the decision be taken out of his nervously wringing hands.

And the reason he knew, he _knew_ , that he wasn’t actually brave, was that nowhere was the impulse more powerful than when it came to protecting and guarding his own self.

Not his corporation, of course. Aziraphale could be positively reckless when it came to the physical vessel his ethereal essence inhabited. He didn’t _mean_ to be, exactly; but this Creation just teemed with such interesting and delightful and wondrous matter, things to look at and listen to and touch and smell and _taste_ , that he sometimes became quite careless in pursuit.

No, it was his … well, what humans might call his _heart_ , that he guarded so assiduously. The core of his being, really; that part of him that overflowed with joyous love for the Almighty and all Her works, and rested secure in that love returned. 

That same heart that had been repeatedly _broken_.

Broken by the sight of his ethereal siblings rejected, cast out, _Fallen_ , for a transgression he never quite understood.

Broken by the call to take up arms against those with whom he had once shared a tranquil harmony of purpose.

Broken by the pain as he exiled those fragile humans he yearned only to safeguard and guide.

Broken by the stench of a drowned Creation that had inexplicably displeased its Maker.

Broken by the cruel caricature of the Tree of Knowledge, turned into an instrument of torture by the unpalatable suggestion just to _be kind to each other_.

And very much like a human might encase a broken bone in splint and plaster, building a sturdy cast to support a limb until it could heal on its own, so had Aziraphale constructed a shield about his heart. A wall of dutiful obedience, of unquestioning faith, of rigid black-and-white morality, to protect that battered loving core until the full measure of faith and trust were gradually restored. 

If only he had a moment’s rest!

But no, Heaven and humanity seemed practically to conspire against his poor heart. To poke at it, shake it about, and bruise it, with their pettiness and selfishness and casual cruelty and lack of care.

Is it any wonder that his protective walls only grew stronger? Thicker? More unyielding? A cast changed into a crutch; a crutch transformed into a cage.

_Foul fiend._

_Hereditary enemies._

_We’re not friends._

_You go too fast for me._

_I don’t even like you._

_I’ll never talk to you again._

Protection, he meant those words to be. Splints and bandages for a heart too fragile to risk leaking even a trickle of the love that swelled within. Now they had become iron bars, an inescapable prison—even once he knew, he _knew_ , that the lock was open, the gate swung wide, the jailers cowed and absent.

No, Aziraphale was not brave. 

Not _at_ _all_.

Not like Crowley.

Yet …

The demon still _suffered_. Aziraphale could see it. _Feel_ it. 

For all the centuries, millennia, that Aziraphale had known his wily adversary, he had admired the other’s reckless bravado. Inflicted with an essential wound far more grievous than the angel could even begin to comprehend, Crowley nonetheless had thrived. Where the angel had become cautious and stiff, the demon had rebelled; he questioned and sneered, sidestepped and ducked, ignored and outright _lied_ , flickering like a flame around the pressures of Hell and Heaven alike, staying true only to his own kaleidoscopic core.

At some point (perhaps from the very beginning? Aziraphale was never quite sure), it had amused a serpent to entangle a dull and clumsy principality in his coils. For whatever reason, the angel had become one of the fixed points in Crowley’s ever-shifting dance, a sturdy pole for the demon to circle about and swing upon and (occasionally) bounce off, as he both fought and indulged his fiendish instincts, trying his best not to stumble over his own capering feet.

But now, Crowley had been thrown off his rhythm, tripped up by the same freedom Aziraphale was still too trapped to accept.

Like a human who, having spent his entire life leaning into a fierce opposing wind, could not find his balance once he had nothing to push against, Crowley seemed … _unmoored_.

Lost.

The same demon who had invented the Arrangement, who had begged Aziraphale to run away with him, who had so fiercely and passionately championed _Our Side_ , now quarreled with and sniped at the angel at every opportunity. And there was a great deal of opportunity, since Crowley spent almost all his time now at the bookshop; arriving there before opening hours, bearing tea and pastries, unless he had spent the entire night drinking and dozing on the shabby sofa. Yet he also constantly made snide, cutting remarks about Aziraphale’s home, his clothes, his habits, even his person (not like the amused sarcasm that the angel had always enjoyed as poorly-concealed banter). Several times a week, some comment or observation from Aziraphale would cause the demon would erupt into bitter, scathing denunciations, tirades that would inevitably conclude with a slamming door and the roar of the Bentley’s engine (nothing in common with their customary almost-flirtatious bickering over the centuries). It was almost as if Crowley did not how to be without an enemy to fight against; and he had cast Aziraphale by default into the role.

All of which Aziraphale would have endured for as long as the demon needed. After all, it isn’t as if the angel hadn’t said and done worse— _much_ worse—to his best friend for so long, all of which Crowley had tolerated, accepted, and even forgiven with little more than a twisted smirk.

No, the problem was that it was excruciatingly obvious that Crowley himself _hated_ acting this way.

With every vicious insult, every screaming rant, Aziraphale could see the horror in the demon’s golden eyes, the desperate plea that the angel _stop this, stop ME, muzzle me, bind me,_ smite _me, whatever you have to do, I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to BE this_ … Yet as Crowley kept re-tracing the oppositional patterns ingrained by endless dances, the principality stood frozen behind his self-forged prison bars, too cowardly even to reach through.

Because Aziraphale was not brave.

Still …

… in the end …

… one little word was enough to break through.

“… don’t you talk to _me_ about Hellfire, it doesn’t _matter_ , don’t see why we even _bothered_ , not when the whole bloody planet is _burning up_ anyhow,” Crowley was raging, pacing across the backroom like the antique carpet was scorching his feet. “Not that Heaven will _do_ anything about it, or,” he whirled about and jabbed an accusing finger, “or _you_ , angel, you’re too fucking _soft_ —”

Somewhere, deep within his innermost core, Aziraphale felt something … _crack_.

“Soft,” he interrupted. He gently pushed the demon’s hand away.

“Yeah, _soft_ ,” Crowley gibed nastily. He poked with his finger again and again, right into a well-worn waistcoat. “Useless. Useless, and, and soft, _soft_ , SOFT!”

“ _Soft_ ,” the angel repeated. A familiar flame rose up his spine, straight as a sword. Plaster crumbled. Walls shattered. Black iron bars melted. 

Arrested by something in his tone, Crowley stilled. “Aziraphale, I …” he began, hesitant.

“SOFT,” Aziraphale roared. Quicker than a lightning strike, he leapt to his feet. He grabbed the demon by his lapels, and slammed him into the nearest set of bookshelves. “You don’t want me _fucking SOFT_?”

Crowley reached up to cover the fists that pinned him in place, several inches off the floor. He looked down into a pair of eyes, alit with … no, this wasn’t _wrath_ , this was something _else_ …

Aziraphale shoved his face up right up into his demon’s, their noses almost brushing. “How fucking _hard_ do you want me to be?” he growled.

(The instinct to protect and guard, it must be noted, was many things. _Subtle_ was not among them.)

Crowley, slit pupils blown nearly round, slid his hands down those arms, so rigid and tense, and cupped the face so near to his own. He bent his head slightly, bumping their foreheads together. “ _Sssssoft_ ,” he breathed.

The angel made a noise in the back of his throat, oddly reminiscent of the nonsensical consonant strings Crowley had perfected. Then he kissed him.

Fierce.

Passionate.

_Hard_.

Crowley didn’t seem to mind. He went limp, held in place only by the angel’s strong grip. He kissed Aziraphale back, frantically, his mouth everywhere, on the angel’s lips, his chin, his eyelashes, the corner of his nose, back to his lips, his earlobe, nipping his lips again, long fingers burying themselves into pale-blond curls, chanting “ _soft, soft, so ssso ssssoft_ ,” almost mindlessly. 

Things went on this fashion for quite some time.

Then swerved to another style completely.

Indeed, several new trends may have been spontaneously invented.

…

No, Aziraphale was not brave. 

But for his demon, he would be a strong refuge and a mighty fortress.

And love, as is well known, abideth forever.


End file.
